


The Fall of the Frost Lich

by Dlxm950



Series: Story of the Frost Lich [5]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Character Undeath, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, Major Character Undeath, Minor Character Death, Multi, Possessive Behavior, Sad, Sad Ending, Sad and Happy, Undeath, im telling you all that now, look - Freeform, not everyone is going to come out of this one alive, some don't, some people get there happily ever after
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:00:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dlxm950/pseuds/Dlxm950
Summary: With the Fourth War over and N'zoth defeated everyone thought that, at last, they would have peace. Yet it was not to be.Mear days after the old gods defeat the Scourge have started there assault on the world once more. With little resources and fewer choices, the Alliance and the Horde will have to work together (along with some unlikely allies) to defeat the Frost Lich and once and for all put an end to the Scourge.Will the Frost Lich succeed in her ambitions?Will our heroes manage to figure out her plot in time to stop it?Read and find out.
Relationships: Alexstrasza/Alleria Windrunner, Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner, Lorna Crowley/Tess Greymane (one-sided), Taelia Fordragon/Tess Greymane, Thalyssra/Lor'themar Theron (Implied)
Series: Story of the Frost Lich [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1352464
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	The Fall of the Frost Lich

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is guys, a nice multi-chapter work to really flesh out my Frost Lich AU. I hope you enjoy it.

Saurfang had seen many horrible things during his life. From the enslavement of the Horde by Gul'dan and the Legion through to the three wars he had fought against the Alliance in its name. Enough to harden any heart and bitter any soul. His ledger, as many within the Alliance had been quick to point out, was soaked in blood. 

His quill stilled against the parchment at that morbid reminder.

He was just as guilty as any other Orc; just as drenched in shame and disappointment all those within his Horde seemed to find themselves dredging through. The great lie, as he had begun to call it, the true foundations of the Horde. Born from the deceit and immoral guidance of the monster they had called their leader. It was called the path of honour, to die gloriously in battle so as to join your loved ones in the afterlife. Yet, where was that honour as they slaughtered thousands, where was the glory in using a mana bomb to wipe Theramore off the map. 

He wondered what his family, his beloved Dranosh and Remda, would think of the old bitter orc he had become. Forever searching for his final confrontation but forever denied it.

His thoughts (perhaps blissfully) were interrupted as a young troll entered his tent. Lanky blue arms awkwardly raised into a warriors salute, his eyes wide and innocent, the tuft of red hair atop his head crips with the frost of Northrend. 

“Lord Saurfang, the troops are ready to head north at your command.” Zekhan told him, his voice cracking slightly.

Hardly a child, but an innocent nonetheless. The sort of person Saurfang would have thought to be a tailor or a blacksmith. Not a shaman, not even a fighter, yet here he was; like many, barely trained and pushed to the front lines in a desperate attempt to fill their ranks. An unfortunate consequence of the ongoing war against the Frost Lich. The old orc had done his best to watch over the younger soul, offering advice and keeping him close. Some might call in preferential treatment but it hardly mattered, just so long as he could continue to nurture his abilities.

“Good, have them start the march towards Agmar’s Hammer. Hopefully, we’ll be able to reach the fort by dusk.” Saurfang responded.

He then began to gather what he would need to take with him, various reports and maps useful for the coming assault on the former red dragon flight. Only to pause when he realized that Zekhan had not left. The young troll was still standing at the front of his tent, awkwardly shuffling from side to side.

“Best tell me whatever it is you need to, it does neither of us any good to watch you squirm.”

That shocked Zekhan into stillness, his spine snapping ram rode straight as he began to fumble for words. Finally, he seemed to gather himself enough to make a sentence, his voice uncertain and fearful.

“A patrol group returned earlier this morning with a prisoner. She refused to fight them and said that she had valuable information for our leaders.”

This gave Saurfang pause. While defectors weren’t uncommon during times of war the Scourge was no normal enemy. Many didn’t even have the free will required to defect, let alone the required intellect to be of value. This was more than likely a trap, a single undead sent to them as a trap in hopes that their desperation would overcome their common sense. Certainly a few of his subordinates had fallen prey to such tactics, but he was no fool.

“And what has been done with her?”

“She is currently confined to the brig, awaiting death at your command.”

“Good. Inform the guards that I will let them deal with her at their discretion. A quick beheading at then burning with the other undead.” Saurfang ordered.

Zekahn gave another sault, if not hesitantly, before moving to comply; but just as he turned to leave, Saurfang stopped him.

“Did the undead give her name?” He asked, forcing the young troll to face him once more.

He shuffled for a moment before finally finding his voice.

“She said...her name was Alleria Windrunner.”

For all intents and purposes, Alleria had been treated rather well as a prisoner of the Horde. She had a relatively roomy cell, complete with an actual window and a bed, and (blessedly) it was heated. The Scourge had no need for warmth, so none was provided, and while she couldn’t really  _ feel _ temperatures anymore, the warmth did help to soften her frozen joints and make her movements easier.

She had considered going to the Alliance first, to parlay with King Wrynn and work with them against her wife’s newest ambitions. Yet every attempt to communicate with them had been ill-fated at best. Only one of the twelve Alliance patrols she had approached stopped attacking her long enough to hear her out, and of the six of them only two had believed her. 

With many new injuries to heal and few other choices she then turned to the Horde. 

For better or for worse her sister and the Forsaken had been of the Horde, and many of them still resided within it to spite Jaina’s surprise attack on Lordaeron. She would need their help and, more importantly, their voice to spread the ill tidings she brought. So she moved away from the Grizzly Hills, once again risking her safety and freedom by crossing back into the Dragonblight and crossing from there into the Borean Tundra. It wasn’t long after that she found herself made a prisoner by a small patrol group.

They had mostly left her alone after her imprisonment. The Orc’s in the patrol had stuck around for a few minutes to taunt her, once again thinking her to be nothing more than a mindless grunt, but there was also a Troll. He was very different from most other Trolls Alleria had ever seen, far more lank and height than muscle, his eyes betraying his discomfort at his fellows taunting. 

When the Orcs seemed to have their fill and left, to do whatever it was they did with what little brain cells they had, the Troll approached her.

“I don’t know if you can understand me,” he began, his higher-pitched voice revealing him to be quite a bit younger than many others she had encountered, “but I don’t agree with what they be saying about you. It not be ya fault for bearing this curse, and it certainly does no good to mock you for it.”

It was so honest, so  _ sincere _ , that she found herself almost brought to tears. After nearly a year of possessive and obsessive behaviour, to have someone treat her with kindness for no other reason than their own was euphoric.

“Thank you.” She responded, her voice raspy like stone grinding against stone. “It has been a long time since anyone gave me the benefit of the doubt.” 

The common felt rough on her undead tongue. A consequence of being forced to use only draconic for extended periods of time. 

“Do you have a name?” He asked her.

She thought about his question for a moment, thinking through the costs and the benefits of telling him the truth. She could tell him and hope that word got through the camp to someone of significant rank before they killed her, but odds were he may just not believe her. They had never met before, and, as the adage went, all elves look the same, even the dead ones. He would have no reason to believe her, let alone report it to his superior.

But she was desperate, and in the end, that was all that mattered.

“My name is Alleria Windrunner.” 

He blinked at her for a few moments, she could see the dots connecting in his brain before his eyes went wide.

“This...this cannot be. If you are...then that means…” He mumbled in disbelief, the truth of their situation dawning for what was probably the first time.

“It is all true.” She confirmed. “Everything. All the whispers and rumours are true, and I must warn the Horde leadership before your armies walk into a deathtrap. Please, before we are all lost to the Frost Lich’s madness.” By the end, she had both hands white-knuckled around the bars of her cell. Her eyes manic and crazed in her desperation. 

He scrambled back at her sudden motion, eyes wide with fear and skin gaunt and pale. At that moment any hope she might have had of him believing her were dashed. She was forced to watch as he scrambled to his feet and fled the dungeon, carrying with him their last hope for survival.

* * *

The last time a Warchief had summoned him, Lor'themar Theron had the great displeasure of meeting Garosh Hellscream. An absolute brute of an orc unafraid of any man, woman, or moral, as long as he got what he wanted. A true dictator and inheritor to the mantle of Blackhands Horde. Slaughtering his way across the globe in an endless quest to prove to anyone and everyone that the Horde was supreme in every way. Helpless to all but watch it unfold, Lor’themar had nearly caved and turned his people to the Alliance.

The newest Warcheif made him glad that he hadn’t.

While in no regard a pacifist, Saurfang had proven to hold true to himself the core tenants of orcish society; to act with honour and seek honour in all things. He was the sort of leader who inspired all to be better, not only for their own sake but the worlds. Not to mention his incredible skills as a warrior and military tactician. He was exactly the leader they needed to get them through this growing crisis. 

That being said.

The timing of this emergency meeting could not have been worse. The Scourge once again threatened the borders of Quel’thalas. While not the main force of their armies, several large swarms (because that was truly the only apt description for the hordes that continued to throw themselves against their mighty gates) had crossed into their territory. Even now, as he stepped through the portal with Liadrin at his side, a host nearly five thousand strong threatened to overwhelm their defences. It was only by the grace of the sun (and many well-placed fortifications) that they had managed to hold for so long.

“Ranger General.” A nightborne said as they stepped out of the portal room. “The other leaders are gathered and awaiting you in the chamber.”

“Thank you, please return to them and offer my apologies for running so late.” Lor’themar responded.

“Your will be done, Ranger General.” There was a brief puff of smoke and then the messenger was gone.

“You’d think with all their pain during the legions invasion that the Shal’dorei would be less inclined to use their magic so liberally.” Liadrin commented as they began their walk through the winding passages of Warsong Hold.

“Perhaps some of them have but we, more than most, understand just how hard it can be to shake a magical addiction. You remember how the loss of the Sunwell crippled us, just as well as you remember the euphoria of its restoration.” Lor’themar told her, his tone slightly admonishingly. 

Liadirn’s eyes hardened at his words, her mind undoubtedly filtering through the painful memories his words had stirred. It was perhaps cruel to remind them both of such times, especially considering how far their people had come, but it was good. It kept them humble, honest.

They wandered through the various winding corridors in silence after that. Both either unwilling to broach the prior subject or content to simply allow the sounds of the fortress to carry them along. Their route took them past the furnaces, a brief glance within revealed the many peons working hard to shovel coal and wood into the fires, each day fighting an ever harder war against the frigid climate of the north most continent. Pages would pass them occasionally, rushing past with a muttered apology as they attempted to make sense of an ever-growing and complicated bureaucracy. One even had the great misfortune of colliding with one of the furnace workers, his many scrolls flying high into the air along with a rather large amount of coal. 

They quickly made their way past the incident before it could get ugly. 

Then, at long last, they reached the council chambers. Standing just outside the doors Lor’themar could already hear the various Horde leaders shouting and arguing within. His ear flickering as a light pain began to grow at the back of his head. Belore have mercy, he wasn’t even through the doors and a migraine had already beset him. 

“I most certainly do not envy you.” Liadrin jested as she moved to accept a report from an approaching Sin'dorei.

“I would not envy myself either. One would hope that after nearly a decade of fighting alongside each other that we would be passed this point.” He remarked tiredly.

“You above all others should understand to never underestimate the power of self-importance.”

“And here I was thinking of you as a friend.”

“I can’t be blamed for your poor decision making.”

“Remind me again why I keep you around?”

“Because if I wasn’t then you’d have to do all the paperwork.”

It was a good point. 

He hummed noncommittally before allowing it to fall away into a deep and heavy sigh. There was no point stalling, best to just get it over with. The sooner he went in, the sooner he could return to Silvermoon’s defence. Yet, before he even had the chance to reach for the door handle, the great wooden doors swung open with a bang.

“FINE! See how well the Horde performs without Goblin tech and resources!” Gallywix shouted, the much smaller leader brushing past Lor’themar and Liadrin with little more than gruff huff, followed by much muttering about snide elves and cheap orcs.

Blinking once or twice at the outburst, Lor’themar simply shook his head and stepped into the room, making sure to draw as little attention to himself as possible. It appeared to be for not though.

“Ah, Lor’themar, Ith’el Kanesh.” Thalyssra said as she stepped away from the other leaders to greet him, her right hand raised.

“Sinu Bal’a-dash, Thalyssra. I see that you all went ahead without me.” Lor’themar responded as he raised her offered hand to his lips, gently kissing the back of it. 

She had been smiling at him during their greetings, her lips pulled into such a rare show of genuine happiness that its loss to the following frown felt like so much more. Her eyes, once glowing only with the residual mana that all nightborne had coursing within them, now pulsed with power as they locked onto the still retreating form of Gallywix. 

“The Alash’tor had the gall to demand payment from my people for the “charitable donations”, the Goblins made to help protect Suramar.” She hissed quietly, clearly both angry and upset at the turn of events.

“I often find that Goblins are best treated like a bad rash, the only real cure is just to ignore them.” Lor’themar responded in an attempt to return that smile to her lovely face.

It worked. Her eyes immediately dimmed as a soft chuckle escaped her, the sound ringing like bells; both melodic and enchanting. He wishes for a bottle to contain it, so that he may savour it for the rest of his days. He was also thankful that Liadrin was not with him at that moment, lest she pokes fun at him for what she called “the most obvious pining this side of Zandalar”.

He was pulled from his thoughts  _ about _ her voice by her  _ actual _ voice, unfortunately not fast enough for him to actually catch what she said.

“My apologies, I seemed to be lost in my thoughts, would you repeat that please?” He asked in an attempt to save whatever remained of his pride he could.

If the smirk on her face was anything to go by he had failed miserably, but still she did not call him out for it.

“I was just advising that we return to our seats, lest you wish to remain standing in the middle of the room as everyone else does so.”

“Surely you would not be so cruel?”

“I suppose we’ll never know…” She said, dragging out the last word as she spun around and delicately walked back to her seat. 

He couldn’t help but admire the sight swaying of her hips as she walked away. Watching closely as the fabrics of her robes swayed with the motions, offering him the barest glimpse of the skin beneath. Smooth and muscled, delicate yet powerful, provocative yet also-

“-Oomph!”

He staggered forward slightly, the air knocked from his lungs by a firm smack to the back from Baine. The Tauren chieftain chuckling as he lumbered past.

“We are about to start the meeting, that is, if you're done admiring the view…?”

Lor'themars’ face went beet red at having been caught staring and quickly covered it with a cough before moving to take his seat beside Thrall and Lillian Voss; the former a strong ally and the later the newest leader of the Forsaken after Sylvanas unfortunate kidnapping by the Frost Lich.

Once they were all seated around the table it quickly became obvious that they were missing someone. Besides the obvious exclusion of Gallywix, Warchief Saurfang had yet to return from the break. Lor’themar could not help but wonder where he could be, it seemed most unlike the older Orc to be late, let alone to a meeting he himself called. 

“Well...as the Warcheif appears to be running late, perhaps I could start us off by giving a report on the state of our forces throughout Azeroth…” Baine began, starting what would become one of the longest Hours of Lor’themars’ life. 

It wasn’t that he found these meetings unimportant, quite the contrary actually. It was good that they were all kept up to date on troop locations and the general status of the war. It was certainly an improvement from the previous Warchiefs who, more often than not, liked to keep things close to the chest as it were. But a small part of him could not deny that he was frustrated by it. His city, his home, was under siege. His people once more at risk from a very familiar enemy. And where he should have been in the city, helping to man their defences, he was stuck in a meeting he had been told was important, that he absolutely needed to be in attendance for, that seemed to ultimately be pointless.

Everyone had given their reports twice over now, and still, Saurfang failed to arrive. By this point, many leaders had begun to get antsy in their seats. Awkwardly shuffling about, none wanting to be the first to leave lest the Warcheif suddenly makes his appearance. Yet after another half an hour passed Lor’themar had had enough. Poor Talanji had just started her third report to the council when he stood, all eyes in the room moving to him at the sudden turn of events. 

“My apologies Queen Talanji, but I cannot afford to waste any more of my time. You are all more than welcome to stay but I will not put off the defence of my people any longer.” With that he made his way towards the door, everyone watching him with wide eyes.

Yet, once more, before he could even get halfway there the great doors swung open. 

Lor’themar froze in place, his eyes locked in surprise on the Warchief as he stood in the entranceway. The old Orc looked around the room for a moment before focusing in on him. Now the appropriate thing to do would have been to bow his head and return to his seat.

He did not.

Instead, he met the Warchiefs gaze with his own in an open challenge. The two stared at each other for a few moments, Saurfang’s neutral and unfaltering while his own remained sharp. 

“Theron.” Saurfang said, his voice low and measured.

“Warchief.” He responded, making sure to keep his tone free from any inflection.

The Warchief stared for a few moments longer before grunting and looking away. The whole room seemed to release a breath they hadn’t realized they’d been holding as Lor’themar did the same. There was still a moment of awkward silence after both leaders sat. one which was only broken by Thrall who had apparently decided that someone needed to get the ball rolling.

“Warchief, it is good that you join us. Talanji was just giving us her report on the status of Zandalr’s navy, and I’m certain everyone else would be more than happy to-”

“That won’t be necessary, some new information has been brought to my attention that is most alarming, and poses not only a threat to the Horde but the Alliance as well.” Saurfang interrupted his voice sounding dangerously close to honest to Belore fear.

“Then allow us to contact the Alliance, surely with this information, we can work out some form of agreement to work together, just as we have before.” Baine commented.

“I already have.”

Just at that moment the doors swung open once more, revealing to the room a whole host of Alliance leaders, chief of all being High King Anduin Wrynn. 

Everyone just sort of stared, both sides just sort of taking in the fact that they were all now in one room with less than inches between them. 

“King Wrynn, I see my messenger reached you.” Saurfang said.

“Yes, although I am sad to report that he maintained many severe injuries during his travels and passed away before we had a chance to help.” The High king replied, his tone carefully crafted to be emotive enough so as not to sound uncaring, but neutral enough not to give anything away.

Lor’themar didn’t believe it for a moment. 

What had more than likely happened was that whatever poor soul had been sent to deliver the message had been killed almost immediately on sight, and upon reading the message they carried came up with a cover so as not to ruin any chance at diplomatic overtures. But he wasn’t going to call them out for it, not yet at least. They were going to need to work with the Alliance, no matter what his personal opinions on the matter may be.

Unfortunately, it seemed Talanji did not share this sentiment. 

“You expect us to work with these-these-!” She couldn’t even finish her sentence, her rage simply too great.

“I can assure you that the feeling is mutual.” Greymane growled out as he took a step forward. Only stopped by a hand placed in front of him, courtesy of Anduin. 

“We have not come here to fight, your message said you had something important to show us, let us see it so we may all return to our duties.”

Many heads nodded on both sides at the king's words. A light murmur of agreement floating through the air. Saurfang nodded his thanks to the young human before standing once more. His voice practically dripped with authority as he spoke.

“Earlier this morning a patrol group to the northeast managed to apprehend what they believed to be an important Scourge officer. She informed them that she had highly valuable information that  _ we _ needed to hear.”

That struck up another round of murmuring. 

Lor’themar stared with one brow raised at the Warchiefs' words. While certainly valuable if true, the whole situation reeked of a trap. His thoughts ran wild for a time before, at last, he could hold them in no longer.

“If I may, Warchief, how do we know this is nothing more than a Scourge plot?” He asked, his voice cutting through the room like a hot knife through butter.

“I would very much like to know the same.” Mathias Shaw added, the head SI7 agent drawing many more nods of agreement. “It is nigh impossible for Scourge to break free of their masters, it took Arthas weakening halfway across the globe for the Forsaken to even have the chance.”

“I thought much the same.” Saurfang responded. “I had planned to simply have her executed, but then I was told her name and...well...it is probably better that I just show you.”

The Alliance leaders were forced to move further into the room as the door opened, but once it did, the room fell silent. Lor’themar could not believe it, refused to believe it. Throughout all his years of service to the Sunwell, he could recall only once that he had been caught so off guard.

“Alleria…” Turalyon breathed.

* * *

“It’s any wonder they managed to defeat the Legion considering their pension to act like children.” Jaina murmured as she watched the gathered leaders through her scrying orb. “But I suppose it's to be expected, they never could do anything without punching each other first.” With a wave of her hand the orb floated off to the side of her chair, just as the Alliance and Horde began to bicker.

To spite all their shortcomings their forces had been making progress. Getting better at fighting her armies without losing men, repelling her assaults, stopping her minions from carrying out their orders. It was mildly infuriating actually, because she knew she was smarter, stronger, and more capable than all of them combined. Yet here she was, one year into her assault and already on the back foot as it were. 

A knock at the door broke her line of thought. 

“Enter.” 

She didn’t need to ask who it was, she already knew. There were only two beings on the planet with any level of power close to her own, and Alexstrasza was currently overlooking their projects in Uldum. 

Sylvanas walked in like a good soldier should, shoulders straight, arms at her side, and her hood lowered. Beyond that...well, it was still a work in progress.

“The reports from Ironforge, my Queen.” 

She needed to work on the voice, it was all scratchy and echoey, not at all like the Sylvanas she had long desired at her side. Another project to see too, she supposed.

“And…? Have our agents had any luck finding Bronzebeards body?” 

“No, my lady. The dwarves have done much to hide such information, so far all we’ve been able to gather is that it is somewhere within the great forge.”

“Well, I don’t need to tell you just how important it is that our agents complete their mission. We can’t very well allow the speaker to continue unopposed, less he comes across the true nature of my plans.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

“I told you to call me Jaina.”

“Yes Jaina, my Queen.”

“Sigh, come here beautiful.” 

Sylvanas did so immediately, making sure to remove most of the pointy bits of her armor before sitting upon Jaina’s lap. She managed to enjoy it for all of three seconds before it was ruined. When Sylvanas used to sit on her lap, long before any part of their lives had fallen apart, she would be alive. Her skin smooth and warm, her smile bright and teasing, her eyes glowing with so much  _ passion _ . Now she was none of those things; her skin was cold and rough from the magics keeping her alive, her muscles stiff and back straight, she did not smile or laugh, nor did her eyes glow with anything beyond cold indifference. 

It was moments like this that truly made Jaina question everything she had done, sure she had her wife in her arms but was it really Sylvanas? Did the physical presence of her body make up for any and all lack of soul within her? Her mood quickly soured at those questions.

“Get off me!” She hissed as she gave Sylvanas a rather harsh shove.

Sylvanas, of course, righted herself almost immediately. Standing before her queen immaculately as Jaina still fumbled and squirmed in her anger. 

“My Queen-”

“Get. Out.”

She didn’t really mean it, she never wanted Sylvans to leave, but her anger and self-hatred overrode any lingering desire for touch and comfort. 

Sylvanas simply dropped into a bow before marching back out the door.

Then it was just Jaina. Alone with little more than anger and rage to fuel her, her hair frazzled and wild, her eyes much the same. Beside her, the remnants of Frostmourne glowed harshly within her staff, taunting her with their power. 

_ Look at the mage who thinks herself our master. _

_ Look at the fool who thought to control us. _

_ Where is all that power now, little mage? _

“Shut. Up.”

_ Oh, the anger, the rage. _

_ Do you think us scared little mage? _

_ What have we to fear as we watch you fall apart at the seams? _

“I said.  **Shut. UP!”** Just as she shouted a massive burst of arcane energy ripped from the top of her staff and blasted into a nearby wall. The ice shattering and melting as her volatile magics ripped into the blood of the old god.

It seemed to do the trick though.

Almost immediately the shards silenced themselves. The glow of their magic muting down to nothing more than a pale reflection of the ice. 

“That’s what I thought.” Jaina said victoriously.

She was fine, everything was fine, she only needed to accomplish one last goal and everything she had been working towards these long, long, years would come together.

She was fine. _Absolutely fine_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always feel free to leave a comment, constructive criticism is always welcome, just try and keep it respectful.


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